A Lesser Fee for Judas
by ForbiddenDreams13
Summary: He didn't want this. To see Germany standing before him, gun trained on him with murder in his eyes, No, he didn't want to betray his friend, but he didn't want to continue this farce any longer. Judas betrayed for thirty pieces of silver, Benedict Arnold turned traitor for money and a promotion, Italy only left the Axis because he didn't want his country to be reduced to ashes.


**Welcome new and old readers! It's been quite a while since I wrote anything, huh? Sorry for the long wait. Please enjoy this one-shot to celebrate my writing re-birth!**

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The acrid stench of gunpowder hung in his nose. Left, right, up, down, no matter which way he turned his face, everywhere was coated with the stinging olfactory mixture of metal, black powder, and fire. Splashes of blood dotted the streets, each cherry-colored puddle glowing with such brightness under the harsh, accusing glare of the sun that he couldn't bear to look at it. So red, _too_ red. How could real blood even be that red? From behind him, he heard a quick succession of rattling pops, followed by a sickening thump and an awful, piercing wail. Down the street, a building exploded, spewing its guts of concrete and steel in all directions. A small piece whizzed by and sliced his cheek. The cut drooled down the side of his face, two drops of that all-too bright blood.

Italy trembled. He was shaking so hard he couldn't properly grip his gun, nor could he even try to aim it. Every time he tried, his spasming muscles kept smacking the butt of the rifle into his collar bone, his neck, his face, everywhere but his shoulder. The man in front of him had no such problems. Like a statue, he stood tall, every part of his body locked into position. Arms, legs, face, even his eyes were as cold and unyielding as stone. Italy peered into the barrel of his opponent's gun. The darkness inside the metal tube seemed to swell, almost pouring out onto the pavement as if it were more eager to take him than the bullet, so patiently waiting at the back of that dark abyss.

Tears streamed down the Italian's face, mingling with the blood and smudges of dust on his face, "W-Why? Why are you doing this?"

The man narrowed his eyes, "I could ask you the same thing," he tightened his finger on the trigger, "why did you betray me?"

The southern nation lowered his head, resting his gaze on the man's shiny black boots. Jack boots. The boots that every soldier in his nation wore. The boots that were stomping through his streets right now, running into buildings and yanking out men, women, and children, trampling bodies, and crunching over broken glass.

Still looking at the ground, Italy murmured, "I didn't Germany…I-I swear, I-"

"Hm? Wie bitte?* I can't hear you when you mumble," Germany's voice hardened, "look me in the eye when you speak to me Italy," he growled.

Italy did as he was told. Raising his face, he stared at the image in front of him. Clad in a dark, shadow-black uniform, the silver buttons sparkled as if someone had stitched stars into the fabric. A couple medals gleamed gold-fire above the right pocket, and the Nazi swastika leered out from the bright crimson armband that clung to the German's left arm. That symbol. That awful, horrible symbol. The icon that both shed and demanded blood…it seemed only fitting that it be superimposed on blood-colored fabric. The brim of his hat cast a shadow on Germany's face, making his eyes glow. Italy frowned. Germany didn't wear this uniform. Germany caught this, and he smiled, teeth gleaming like that of a hungry wolf.

"Do you like my new look?"

"That…is that…"

"An SS uniform, ja," Germany gave a humorless, dark chuckle, "I figured if you'd take the low road and try to do anything it took to win, then so would I."

"I don't understand what you mean-"

"Don't play dumb with me you schweinhund*!" Germany snarled. Italy flinched. The blond man heaved a sigh, and pulled his arm back, tapping the barrel of the Luger against his shoulder. Eyes of pastel blue, made dark by rage regarded his former ally. Harsh German barks sounded from behind the rubble of the recently blown apart building. Darting around the corner, a group of Italian rabbits fled their hunters, only to be brought down by a separate pack that had been lying in wait across the street. Both groups converged upon their prey and in an explosion of blood and screams. Sighing, the German continued.

"You know full well what you did. Right after the fall of that weasel Mussolini, your government not only switched sides, but went so far as to declare war on me."

His free hand clenched into a fist. Sparks of rage glittered upon the cerulean stone of his eyes. The Luger crept down from Germany's shoulder and once more pointed itself at the terrified Italian.

" _On me!_ Your own ally! Your own friend! That you would entertain the notion is evil enough, but to become Judas and act upon it-"

"But Germany, we are going to lose!" Italy interrupted, his exclamation torn by a choked sob. Far off in the distance a cathedral exploded, the clapper breaking free from the bell only to strike the concrete below with a warped, mournful thud. Cheering arose from the carnage, and a thin, rattling voice could be heard shouting, _wo ist dein Gott?_ It warbled on the breeze, like the death rattle of a demonic bird greeting its first Walpurgis Dawn. The blond soldier opened his mouth to intervene, but the southerner cut him off, "The Axis can't endure Germany. We've lost the fight! The Allies are gaining ground too quickly, everything will be lost. I want to salvage what's left!" Here a fresh wave of tears spilled down Italy's cheeks.

Germany narrowed his eyes, unfazed by the man's sobs, "So…you would compromise your honor to save what's left of this smoldering ruin?" He moved his gun away from Italy and instead pointed it at the body of a young woman lying on the ground nearby, "You seek to rebuild your empire and use these bodies as the foundation?" An ear-shattering crack broke the air as a dark ball of lead slammed home into the corpse. The woman's body jumped as if surprised, then laid still.

Italy gasped. Germany continued, "You would use the bodies of innocents to erect the funeral pyre upon which your integrity shall be burned?" Another round drilled into the body.

Italy whimpered, "Stop it…"

"You would throw these people, these naked babes to the teeth of us war dogs?" Another round, "You would send these men and women, even children to slaughter because you could not bear the thought of losing?" Another round. Shards of bone flew into the air, dancing about on the breeze like tiny white butterflies.

"Germany! Please!"

The gun moved away at last, coming to rest at its original position. At the end of Germany's arm, aimed right at Italy's head, "You would really betray your best friend?"

Shaking like a leaf in the wind and a face streaked with tears, Italy could only stare at the man he'd called his friend. No. He hadn't wanted to betray Germany. He never wanted Germany to hate him. He cared for Germany! That's why he'd switched sides; he'd done so in the hope that Germany would see how foolish this war had become. The Axis were outnumbered and severely outgunned. America had seen to that. There was no way to win, they needed to pack up, take their losses and go home. This time, surrender was the smart option. Italy opened his mouth to plead with Germany one last time.

A sickening crack split the air. The top part of Germany's left shoulder erupted in a shower of crimson. Clutching his ruined shoulder, the German sank to his knees, cursing. Before Italy could look behind him, his right arm was snagged in a vice grip and he was being dragged down the street, away from the Germany, who was scrambling to his feet, yelling profanities. Italy tried to pull free, but the grip tightened and the arm yanked harder.

"Dumb ass! Keep moving, do you want to die?!"

Romano. Italy turned to look at his brother. Eyes narrowed, teeth ground, face streaked with grime and flecked with dried blood. Whether the blood belonged to him, or someone else, Italy didn't know. He was about to ask Romano how he'd found him when something small and dark screamed though the air, right by his ear. Both Italians whipped around to see Germany tearing down the street, gun drawn and eyes glowing with hatred. A blast of orange and black issued from the barrel and another bullet went sailing by, this one right between the two brothers. Romano cursed and aimed his gun at the man.

"Romano don-" The rest of Italy's plea dissolved under the soul-shattering bang of his brother's gun. One moment, Germany was running at full speed down the road. The next, his left knee exploded in a spray of wet, crimson streaked flesh and bits of bone. An animalistic howl of agony split Germany's mouth open wide as he toppled to the ground, nearly drowning out the sickening squish that met Italy's ears as what looked like a handful of ground raw pork landed not far from the now collapsed German. A wave of intense heat washed over Italy. He turned and vomited into the street. Romano stood close by, hand on his brothers back, eyes and gun trained on Germany. When the sickness had passed, Italy felt numb. His ears buzzed and his face was pale and waxy with sweat. From what might have been miles away, Italy felt Romano pull him upright and begin to walk him down the road. Just beneath the buzzing he could still hear that agonized howl. It sounded like a pig being gutted. Italy squeezed his eyes shut tight. A fog was rolling in. All across the expanse of his mind, thick gray clouds began swallowing up his thoughts. The clouds grew darker and darker, until the fog became a blanket of black and he knew no more.

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Sometime later, Italy awoke to the strange sight of America looking down at him. He went to spring up, only to have a hand of stone push him back onto the bed. America must have seen the fear and confusion on the other nation's face because gave Italy a gentle smile.

"It's okay. You're in a safe place now." The American removed his hand from Italy and sat down in a chair adjacent to the bed. He pointed to nightstand sitting to Italy's right. On top sat two steaming mugs of coffee. Italy shook his head. America shrugged and grabbed one of the mugs, taking a sip. Italy stared at the young nation. If it wasn't for the uniform, one could have mistaken him for a normal person, given how relaxed he looked. Sitting there, sipping coffee from a dull, dirty-white mug. It was as if there wasn't a war wrapping up.

"Where…"

"Paris." America chirped, placing the mug back down on the nightstand. The room they were in was tiny. The only part of floor visible were those not covered by the bed, nightstand, or the small three drawer dresser sitting against the opposite wall. The room didn't even have a closet or wardrobe. Italy frowned. Paris? How could that be? And why?

Sensing his questions, America answered, "Romano was with me when we got news of the invasion. After grabbing a couple of my soldiers, who were told to tail your brother, we went into Rome through the southern part and Romano took off looking for you. Fifteen minutes later, he and my guys show up carrying you, passed out. We peeled out of there and hightailed it to Paris since France's place was the closest."

Sitting up, Italy drew his knees to his chest and stared down at the crisp white sheets that covered him.

"Germany tried to kill me." He mumbled.

America nodded, "Yeah, that's what Romano said."

"Why?"

"In his eyes you betrayed him. Besides," he took another drag of the hot liquid, "that's war. I'm pretty sure that wasn't the first time you've had a gun aimed at you."

Raising his head, Italy blinked at America. He sounded so…matter-of-fact, as if he was talking about the weather. "But we're friends!" he insisted, tears welling up at the corner of his eyes.

America sighed, "You _were_ friends. Not sure how much your Benedict Arnold act will change things," he noticed Italy wince and gave him an apologetic smile, "sorry 'bout that. But no, this is how war works. You go out of lock-step with your allies, you switch sides and everyone's out for your blood. France saw this with Robespierre, I had Benedict Arnold, and according to him, Germany has you."

Italy bit his lip, "America," he whimpered, "did I make the right decision?"

The American closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, heaving a deep sigh. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, watching stray bits of dust float down to the floor. After a few minutes of silence, he stood up and turned to walk out.

"I can't answer that one for you. It was your decision, not mine, as such you have to live with it, not me. Do keep in mind though, which side was complacent in the slaughter of innocents and which one sought to end such atrocity."

With that, America strode out of the room, closing the door behind him. Italy laid back down on the bed, rolled over and began to cry.

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 ***Wie Bitte: Come again? Basically a loose translation. If a German can't understand what you're saying, they'll ask this**

 ***schweinhund: pig dog. A very nasty insult. Call a German this, and you just might get punched. In the face. Very hard.**

 **Well, what did you think? It's been a while since I've written anything, so I'd love to hear from you guys.**


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